


(Un)Healthy Ways to Cope

by pentapus, Skalidra



Category: Young Justice (Cartoon)
Genre: Dubious Consent, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Prompt Art, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, after the fact
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-25
Updated: 2017-03-25
Packaged: 2018-10-10 04:31:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10429134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pentapus/pseuds/pentapus, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Skalidra/pseuds/Skalidra
Summary: Dick's never been the best at handling guilt, even before he became responsible for the safety of the entire team. There's always too much to get done and too many things needing his attention for him to focus on handling his own emotions about those things. The job is always first. That can lead to some long nights, and some rough ones. Most times, no one ever knows, but this night, someone's watching.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome! So, a while back Penta and I agreed that she would draw me a picture, and then I would write her something for that picture. (Inserted further down, in the story itself.) I asked for Slade and Dick, and she delivered beautifully. XD So, this is a Young Justice-set story with some ideas stolen from main comics as well, because although these two don't really interact so much in YJ, I choose to believe that they still have some level of history in it. Enjoy!

_March 24th, 04:36 EDT_

The fist that clips Dick's face is enough to snap it to the side. He moved enough to avoid a full-on blow, but the knuckles still catch the curve of his cheekbone enough that the impact carries some weight. The dull ache spreads across his cheek and up onto the corner of his eyelid as he retaliates, taking the man down with a nose-breaking jab of his left hand and then an uppercut from his right.

Blood from the nose and newly split lip — caught between teeth — splatters across the upper left side of his chest in a fine spray. It's not the first of the night. Probably won't be the last.

 _"Are you absolutely sure he isn't playing you?"_ Wally's voice says, echoing in the back of his head for what must be the hundredth time tonight.

It weighs heavy across his shoulders because he's _not_ sure, that's the problem, and if Kaldur really is a traitor then he's misplayed this whole thing and probably cost half his team their lives. He has no idea how he'll ever manage to live with himself if that's true. So much of this plan rests on Kaldur being a double agent for their cause. He needs to believe that the ache in his gut from the inhumanly strong punch was something that was necessary to endure, because if he starts to think that maybe Kaldur really has turned…

He turns to face the next of the thugs, sizing up the ones he has left for a moment before he attacks. They're easy enough to dispatch, so he puts a quick alert out to the cops and moves on, hunting for the next thing he can fix.

Gotham is apparently in a friendlier mood tonight, because she gives him what he wants. He slugs his way through four more trouble-making groups, letting the burn of overtaxed muscle and fresh injuries wipe everything else out of his head, word by word. It's one of the only things that can quiet his mind these days, and he needs to spend a good chunk of time in Gotham anyway. With Bruce gone, Gotham's care is left up to him, Barbara, and Tim, and they can't let it be known that Batman is off world.

He's the only one that can make a decent pass at impersonating Bruce, but he has to show up as Nightwing too so he's nearly pulling triple duty right now with the Team factored in. (He likes it better when he can be himself. He doesn't _want_ to be Batman and he hates how the weight of that cloak settles on him, literally and figuratively.)

The grenade is the thing to finally make him stop.

He has to drag one of the idiots away from the blast radius, which puts him too close when it goes off. The force of it knocks him down, which is lucky because it means that the direction of the shrapnel from the cheap-as-hell wooden flooring is no longer at the correct angle to impale him. There's sharp pain across his chest and lower left arm though when he pushes back up, making sure that the blast knocked out the two remaining thugs (it did), and that neither of them are in immediate danger of dying (they're not).

But his ears are ringing a little bit, his breath is coming short, and he's starting to realize that he's aching too much and too specifically for this to be a good thing anymore. Maybe he's pushed further than he should have. (Even though that's the point; he _knows_ it's the point. Another thing he tries not to think about because it's a little too much like what he's watched Bruce do again, and again, and _again_.)

He shakes his head, winces at how the left side of his face aches a bit, and decides that he needs to get somewhere more secluded so he can at least check his injuries and make sure that nothing needs immediate attention. If it’s too bad he can head… Not home, there’s not really any one place that's ‘home’ right now, but maybe a safehouse, or back to the Hall of Justice. Or maybe he can go back to the manor; give Alfred and Tim a little company. Tim could probably use a bit of reassurance, given how crazy things are right now. Alfred is great, but it can get lonely in a house that big, even with him.

Dick drops off another alert to the police as he ties up the now unconscious thugs, then heads off to find a darker corner to take a breather in. He's a bit dizzy, but not enough to stop him from getting out of the building and heading into the alleys. It's dark, mostly, and given how labyrinthine Gotham's alleys can be it doesn't take him much time to find a dead end.

Someone's written 'Fuck Gotham' across the wall in bright red capital letters, and he gives a tired snort as he leans against that wall; it's a pretty accurate sentiment as far as he's concerned. He twists his head, wincing at the ache at the back of his neck, to look down at what are apparently open gashes through his suit and skin. There's a bit of blood, but it hasn't dripped all that far down, and the gashes are fairly shallow. There's one large-ish one across the top left side of his chest, a smaller one below and one up on his shoulder, and when he twists his arm to look there are a couple on the top of his forearm as well. He shifts a bit, and discovers that there are two more he can't quite see from his angle; one on the left side of his waist, and a second at the back of his left thigh.

Broken wood makes for a rough landing, especially when propelled by grenade. His back hurts too, but not with the sharper kind of pain that would say torn skin. Just bruises.

He's pretty sure he cracked his right wrist into something when he was knocked down though, because that _hurts_. More than his back, or his gut, or any of the other hits he's taken over the night. It's the kind of hurt that makes him worried he might have cracked something, which is definitely the kind of injury that would send him home early. So is the dizziness that won't quite go away; he's pretty sure he didn't hit his head _that_ hard, but maybe…

The lens over his left eye flickers a bit, crackling darkness across the screen, and he mutters a curse as he shakes his head on automatic. It's on the mask so shaking his head doesn't _do_ anything, but the screen does click back on. For a moment. Then it flickers again.

With a hissed, " _Damnit_ ," he reaches up and pulls the mask off, blinking a couple times to try to adjust to the darkness. The side of his face hurts a bit, from the earlier punch, but nothing he can't ignore (and cover up with makeup tomorrow). He keeps his mask in his hand and reaches down, unbuckling his glove so he can get a look at his wrist. He leans a little harder against the wall as he does; he's _tired_.

His wrist is still partially covered by the suit above it, where his glove overlaps, but the skin that he can see is starting to bruise a nasty, dark color on the inside. Not pleasant, but when he rotates it he manages it without hearing anything grind or feeling the urge to scream, so it's probably fine. At least, for right now. He can take a closer look when he gets back somewhere safer, and maybe wrap it up for a day or two, just to be sure.

There's the scuff of a boot against the ground, and he jerks his head up with a sharp bolt of adrenaline — his headache throbs at the sudden movement — to look towards where the alley turns, hands rising and—

“Take a bit of a beating, kid?”

Some part of him relaxes at just the voice, even before his gaze lands on white hair gathered into a long ponytail and a neatly trimmed beard, all too close for comfort and yet he knows that Slade would never go after him unless contracted. Or if he got in the way of a contract; Slade’s always been about the money, first and foremost, but picking fights with heroes isn’t his style. Jeopardizes the job, most times.

“No,” Dick refutes, automatically. The eyebrow not bisected by Slade’s eyepatch rises, and he glares a little bit, even though it makes his face hurt. “It’s been a long night.” Belatedly, he recognizes that Slade isn’t in his suit. The light grey semi-formal shirt, sleeves rolled up above his elbows, and the darker slacks they’re tucked into prompt him to ask, “What are you doing here?”

“I know,” Slade says, instead of immediately answering his question. “You’ve been particularly easy to track tonight, kid. More hands-on too; usually you’re a little better about not getting hit in return, and your little sticks haven’t seen much action tonight.”

“Escrima.”

Slade gives an idle hum of agreement that somehow manages to also sound condescending, as he moves closer. Dick knows, honestly, that he should be more worried about the contract killer approaching him, but the reaction never quite comes. Slade stops in front of him, still nearly a head taller than he is even now that he’s finally grown past being the shortest one on the Team. Slade’s always going to be taller than him; not many people get up as high as that (not even Bruce). Slade’s gaze lingers on his wrist, the side of his face, before reaching up to brush fingers across his jaw and tilt it to the side. The low ache at the back of Dick’s neck makes itself known again, and by the direction that blue eye is aimed that must be what Slade’s looking at.

“What are you doing here?” Dick asks, again. “Stalking me again?”

“Chance,” is Slade’s flippant reply, as his hand lowers away.

“Bullshit.” He pushes off the wall, glaring up and trying to ignore how his legs aren’t sure they want to take his weight, and how his head spins a little bit. “If you’re in Gotham you’ve got a reason to be; what is it?”

Slade doesn’t miss even a bit of how questionably steady he is; Dick’s sure about that. His mouth curls into a thin smirk. “A business opportunity.” Dick inhales, and Slade stops him with a raised hand before he can start to go after that idea. “Over and done with, kid. Non-lethal, I promise. No one even got hurt.”

Dick has to fall back a little bit, just enough for his back to touch the wall again and take a bit of his weight. “Will they?”

“Maybe.” Slade’s gaze rakes over him again, before he says, lower, “Kid, let it go. It doesn’t have anything to do with you. It was just a meeting, and I'll be out of Gotham tomorrow with no increase in fatalities, promise.”

He grinds his teeth together, frustrated at his own inability to tell whether Slade’s being honest or not. Finally, he has to concede, “Alright, but if you’re lying to me—”

“Then you’re really not in a good state to stop me anyway, are you?” Slade points out, with an amused twist to his voice. “I could knock you on your ass all night even without any of my tools, considering how you’re leaning on that wall. But since I’m not interested in humiliating you, why don’t you tell me why you’re punishing yourself, kid?”

Dick has a good response to that, he really does, but when he pushes off the wall to deliver it his right leg wavers and he nearly falls over. Would have, if Slade hadn’t moved with all of those enhanced reflexes, grabbing his right arm and shoulder and holding him up. He grunts a token protest, but ultimately he’ll take getting held up over falling over pretty much all the time, and Slade being the one to hold him isn’t enough to push it over that line. At least not while Slade’s in civilian clothing, and he’s nearly certain that there’s no contract currently on his head. Slade’s seen him worse off than this before; been the cause of it, a couple times. It’s never been personal.

Slade’s grip eases as Dick leans up against the wall again, letting his eyes shut for a moment as he carefully bends his knee to test the weakness (which barely even hurts; why is it _doing_ that?).

“I am not punishing myself,” he denies, grumbling the words. “It’s just been a tough night.”

Slade squeezes his shoulder. “I’d have to be blind to believe that, kid, and unfortunately for you I’m only halfway there.”

“Slade—” Dick cuts himself off, opening his eyes and looking up. Slade is just watching him, steady where he’s not, certain where he isn’t, and he has to force himself to swallow, to grit his teeth again to get the will to say, “It’s not your business.” He's prepared to defend that statement, but Slade just looks at him for a moment, and then gives a small nod.

“It’s fine, kid,” Slade says, voice gone low and almost soft. “I get it.” The hand on Dick’s arm let’s go, rising to brush the back of his fingers across the bruised left cheekbone. “How about you put that mask back on, and we go somewhere I can patch you up? You look like you could use a steady hand and a good beer.”

Dick pauses, caught off guard by the offer. Somehow, _stupidly_ , the only thing to come out of his mouth is, "You know I'm not twenty-one yet, right?"

The look Slade gives him is remarkably unimpressed; the corner of his mouth twisting just slightly upwards. "Do you really think I care?"

Which is a fair point, really. After all, a mercenary assassin is hardly going to care if Dick does a little underage drinking.

"Where?" he asks, instead of agreeing. Because although Slade's right, getting patched up by something other than his own hands does sound nice, he's not totally sure about letting Slade near one of his safehouses, or near _him_ when he's not in full gear. Even without a contract to drive him, Slade is dangerous. (Maybe not to Dick, but that's not the _point_ , and he could easily see Slade drugging him to keep him out of the way for some other job.)

Slade either anticipates his caution or sees it in his expression, because the answer is, "How about my hotel room? It's a nice place; easily greased palms and no one will question any… odd room service orders. If necessary. Or something as simple as dinner for two?" Dick blinks, stares, and Slade adds, "After a few painkillers, of course, unless you're still invested in punishing yourself for whatever you think you've done wrong."

"I wasn't—”

"Yeah, kid, you were." Slade's hand flicks out, tapping Dick's bruised, bared wrist hard enough to make him flinch and recoil a little bit. Then he braces his hand on one hip, head tilting as he looks down at Dick with a raised eyebrow. "Unless you _regularly_ push yourself too hard, forgo your most effective weapons, and take hits you could have dodged with a bit of effort? If so, I'd say you're verging more on masochism than self-flagellation, and you don't strike me as masochistic, little bird. So, painkillers? Dinner?"

Dick flounders a bit; right now Slade feels a bit like an oncoming wave, and he's too tired and not balanced right to keep his footing. "Alright," he agrees, quietly. "I— Alright."

Slade nods, apparently satisfied. "Put the mask back on then, kid. Let's get out of here."

It takes some effort, but he manages to get the mask on — left eye still flickering a bit — and the glove as well, though that hurts a fair amount. Slade doesn't offer to help, just waits for him to be ready, and he appreciates that. Just because he's tired, and maybe a little weaker than he thought he was, doesn't mean he needs help. He can handle it. He can handle all of it.

When he is ready is when Slade offers him an arm, as if escorting a lady. "Shall we?"

It's just strange enough of a gesture for a small snort to escape him, but he takes the arm anyway.

* * *

_March 24th, 06:43 EDT_

It _is_ a nice hotel, and it has balconies with window access, which is probably another reason Slade picked it (even though they take an elevator up, running into absolutely no one thanks to the early hour). Slade's gear must be in the duffel bags off to the side, and Dick watches carefully as Slade kneels down and digs into one, but all that comes back out is a compact first aid kit.

Well, probably a little more than just first aid, given its owner. (Then again, Slade heals pretty fast.)

At Slade’s prompting, and his own desire to, he ends up taking a short shower after downing a couple of the generic painkillers. It stings, but it washes the grime of Gotham off of him and the fine speckling of blood that at some point got sprayed across his left cheek. He’s almost certain that it’s not his, but he dismisses it once it’s washed off and down the drain with everything else.

That’s how he ends up sitting on the corner of Slade’s hotel bed, a towel wrapped around his waist and tucked carefully close beneath one leg, as Slade kneels in front of him and carefully, precisely, bandages up the slices concentrated on his left side.

“Nothing’s too deep,” Slade murmurs, as he flattens out the relatively small bandage now sealed over the smallest gash, the one at Dick’s side. “Shouldn’t require stitches. You’re lucky, kid. Most people that tangle with grenades don’t come out of it this easy off.”

“Usually am,” is his distracted reply; the painkillers have kicked in (and they’re decent ones) so the sensation is pretty dulled. Then Slade’s comment actually clicks, and he lifts his gaze from the hands at his waist to Slade’s single eye. “Wait, how long were you following me?”

“A couple fights,” Slade answers, with a curling smirk. “Give me your arm.”

Dick obeys without thinking, letting Slade start to work on the two slices on the top of his arm. “You’re not in the right kind of clothing to be having meetings in lower Gotham; how did you get on my trail? Why?”

Slade chuckles. “You were making quite the racket on the police channels; I detoured. Figured I’d see what you were up to, and once I got a glimpse, well, it seemed like a good idea to make sure you didn’t get yourself killed over whatever guilt was in your head. _Is_ in your head, rather. If you’d kept going, I might have stepped in to stop you.”

"I didn't need help."

"I didn't say help, I said _stop_." Slade presses the second bandage into place before setting Dick's arm down, looking up at him. "I know you can handle yourself, kid; I didn't say otherwise. But you've got some self destructive tendencies in there, and I wasn't about to let you get yourself killed just because you're wrapped up in your head." A slow, upwards curl of lips, and a maybe-accidental brush of fingers over Dick's wrist and then the back of his hand before Slade murmurs, "You're a little too interesting for that, little bird."

Dick pauses, watching as Slade — as if he hasn't just dropped a big piece of information like it was nothing — turns to retrieve a few more supplies from the first aid kit next to them, gaze flicking back and forth between that and the still bare wounds across the upper left side of his chest; the biggest ones. His mind grabs onto the phrasing, twists it about, gives him a dozen reasons why it's a perfectly innocent statement. Even with the soft tone of voice, the smile, the touch of fingers…

"Interesting?" he echoes, unable to stop himself from prying.

"Surprised?" Slade starts to work on bandaging the gashes across his chest. It stings, but Dick has more important things to think about right now. "I'd lay bets that a fair number of people have thought you were _interesting_ , kid. I can think of at least a couple off the top of my head."

"I'm…” He has to pause for a moment, shifting slightly on the bed until Slade glances up at him with a raised eyebrow, making him still again. "I'm not totally sure you're saying what I think you are, but if you are then I'm maybe a little concerned over how thoroughly you're apparently stalking me."

Slade presses the first of the bandages down, taping the edges. "I like to keep track of threats. Your team isn't as big of one as the Justice League, but it's dangerous enough to be worth a bit of my time."

Dick can't argue that, not really. The Team is good, they're useful and they do good work most times, but they're not on the level of the Justice League. That's sort of the point. "And that includes knowing who I've dated?" he asks, instead of even mentioning any of that. Slade doesn't need any more ammunition to lightly mock him with, even though he's… not entirely sure he minds, oddly enough. Nothing that Slade's said has felt actually cruel, just… pointed. "I don't buy it."

"Hm, well I suppose that must be my interest in _you_ then, mustn't it?" The second bandage is secured in place, and Slade's hands lower as his gaze rises. "Do you still need clarification for what that means?"

Dick swallows, suddenly a little more intimately aware of how Slade is kneeling before him, and how very little — relatively — Dick happens to be wearing. A towel suddenly feels like very little protection against that kind of 'interest.' But just like with the offer of a beer, earlier, the only thing that manages to make it out of his mouth is, "You're almost— No, you're _more than_ twice my age. You know that."

A raised eyebrow, and a slightly crooked smile. "Kid, you don't want a relationship with me any more than I want one with you. That's not my interest, nice as you are." Slade glances over him, then adds, "Now, anything else need to be tended to? Or shall we order that dinner?"

He shifts again, and the one cut that Slade hasn't patched up makes itself aware as his weight shifts onto his left leg. "Actually," he says, quietly, "there's one more. Back of my thigh."

"I won't touch anything you don't want me to," Slade promises, after a moment of silence where Dick doesn't move to actually get up and show him that last cut. "I'm a professional, kid, above all else. You can trust that.”

Dick has to breathe out, slowly, before he can make himself start to turn over. He gets to his feet as he considers exactly how he can do this without flashing Slade, well, _everything_. He's not about to show his ass and his junk to Slade, even for the cause of treating an injury. It's just his thigh though, so maybe if he lies down and then edges the towel up, or…

He startles a bit when Slade stands, one hand rising to lightly touch the shoulder of the hand that's holding his towel shut. "Turn around and open the towel to cover your back, then cup yourself and lie down. I pull the towel as high as it needs to go and no further, and I don't get any views I shouldn't. Sound good, kid?"

He nods, and then slowly manages to actually make himself move. It's odd, a little unsettling, to put his back to Slade, but he falls back on that same, lingering trust. Slade is a mercenary. A professional. Unless there's a price on his head, and Slade's chosen to take it, Dick's in almost no danger. After all, Slade's known his identity for years and apparently never told anyone else, which is a serious point towards trusting him. Maybe not with everything, and not all the time, but… small things. Things like this.

He turns his head to keep Slade in his peripheral vision as he lies down, his cheek to the bed and the towel draped over his back and most of his thighs. Slade sits down at his left side, pulling the first aid kit up onto the bed with them and arranging it before turning his attention to the towel itself. Dick shivers when it's pulled up, settling just below the curve of his ass, but he bites his tongue and doesn't say anything. Especially after it occurs to him that at this angle, looking down and back at his leg instead of up at it, the only thing Slade would be able to see would be his legs anyway. (He wonders, in the back of his mind, how intentional that was.)

"It's not that bad," Slade murmurs, fingers pulling out another of the tape-down pads from inside the kit. "This one will see more movement than the others, so I'm going to be a little cautious. It probably doesn't need anything more than a normal bandage, but just in case it breaks open." A pointed look, over Slade's shoulder, and Dick flushes a little bit. "Though I'd hope you stay out of the tights for at least a day."

"Depends what happens," is the only answer he can honestly give, and Slade's head inclines a bit.

"Fair enough, kid." Dick fights not to squirm at the pressure against his thigh, the brush of warm fingers, and is almost glad for the distraction when Slade adds, "Leading a team is harder than you'd expected, hm?"

"No," Dick offers in return, his gaze falling to the bed itself. "I knew it would be hard. I've known for awhile. I just…”

Slade doesn't prompt him to finish his sentence, just pulls the towel back down a few moments later and offers, "All done. You can get up now, kid; I'll look away." Dick takes the invitation, rolling over and gathering the towel back around his waist, before edging down to sit on the edge of the bed, next to Slade. That's when the blue eye turns back towards him, and Slade holds a hand out. "Let me see that wrist; you've been favoring it."

Really, all he needs to give in to the order is the fact that now that he's out of his suit, he can see that the bruising is a little more extensive than he originally thought, and now firmly a dark purple. Slade's hands are incredibly gentle, barely even prodding into the bruises as he turns it over and then carefully rotates it. Dick winces, but doesn't pull away. It's not _that_ bad.

"Doesn't seem to be worse than a sprain," is Slade's diagnosis, and one hand leaves Dick's wrist to reach over into the kit. It comes back with a bottle that Slade cracks open, and the sharp, herbal smell is an immediately familiar one. "Arnica," is the brief explanation, as Slade pours a bit of the oil over his injured wrist and then starts to carefully rub it in. "You know it, I assume?"

"Yeah." Dick winces again at the pressure against the bruise. "Why do you have it? Don't you heal too fast for it to be useful?"

Slade gives a small smile and a chuckle, reaching over to the kit and retrieving a roll of compression bandages. "Think a bit bigger, kid. You're not the only one that gets hit by people with super strength, sometimes. It hurts you more than me, but I still bruise on occasion." The bandage is wrapped between Dick's fingers, down over his wrist, and he hisses a little bit but doesn't complain. "Mainly, I use it for more major injuries. Most drugs don't work all that well on me, but it's good to have something small to take the swelling down."

"Until it heals," he finishes. "Got it."

Slade ties the wrap off, tearing the end with a pull of strong fingers before taping it down. "So, ready for that dinner?"

He flexes his wrist a little bit, and then nods. "Yeah. Could I uh…” He clears his throat, fighting down the embarrassment that rises as he asks, "Could I borrow some clothes, or something?"

"Sure," is the easy answer, and Slade's smile seems more sympathetic than it does mocking. "I don't think I have any pants that won't just fall off you, but I can at least give you a shirt to wear while I take a look. Maybe I have something with ties."

"You're not _enormous_ ," Dick points out, as Slade gets up and moves to the bedside table, reaching into the drawer.

"I'm still half a foot taller than you, kid," is the rebuttal, before Slade tosses down a plastic sheet onto the bed. A menu, it looks like. "Pick something that looks good, and go ahead and order while I see what I can find."

He turns his attention to the menu. By the time he's picked out something that doesn't look too complicated and he's relatively sure won't be a total pain in the ass to make at somewhere close to seven AM (and he's picked up the phone and actually placed the order), Slade's come back over and handed him a shirt. The same light grey as the one Slade's wearing, and Dick wastes no time pulling it on. It… Alright, it _is_ fairly massive on him, hanging nearly to mid-thigh and totally loose, but it's not like it's a full-on dress or anything. Just… big.

"Pants?" he asks, hoping, and Slade shakes his head.

"Sorry, kid. I only packed for a day, and I wasn't planning on any exercising." Slade sits down next to him again. "So what did you order?"

* * *

 

_March 24th, 07:23 EDT_

The food is remarkably good, given the hour, but Dick guesses that has something to do with what must be a truly massive bill at the end of the hotel stay. He knows it's one of Gotham's nicest hotels, even if he isn't sure exactly what the price tag is. Never stayed himself, even when he was still running around as Bruce Wayne's ward. Why stay at a hotel when you've got a massive manor, after all?

Slade doesn't breach the topic of exactly what it is that made him work himself so hard, which is probably why at the end of all the food and in the quiet afterwards, he ends up saying, "I might have messed up."

There's a moment of silence where Slade, sitting next to him on the couch the room includes, looks down at him. Then, Slade murmurs, "Everyone messes up sometimes, kid."

"Yeah, but when _I_ do it people could die." He lowers his head, curling his fist tight and ignoring the ache that flares up through his wrist. "I made a choice and… and if I was _wrong_ , then a lot of people are going to get hurt. I'm not _sure_. I just wish I knew, one way or the other."

Slade reaches over and takes his hand, forcibly smoothing out his fingers with a quiet, "Don't do that, kid. Don't use pain to punish yourself. Weight of the world on your shoulders, I know, but you just have to live with whatever happens. The choice is already made."

"How would you know?" Dick asks, maybe a little sharply, and Slade lifts his other hand to gently, carefully, stroke the hair away from Dick's temple.

"I was a soldier," Slade reminds him, quietly. "I know what it's like to have lives resting on you, and to feel like you're responsible when things go south."

"I _am_ responsible."

Slade's fingers slide beneath his chin, tilting it up until their eyes meet. "Did you make the best choice you could, with the information you had at the time? Did you make the mistake on purpose?" The twist of Dick's expression must be more than telling, and before he even manages to open his mouth and retaliate Slade is continuing, "Trust yourself, kid. You made a judgment call, and you're damn good at all of this so at the time, I'm sure it was the right one. If it's changed, that's not your fault. Deal with it how you need to, or trust in your own judgment, but don't hurt yourself over the guilt of it. That's not helping anyone."

He flexes his fingers under the solid, firm pressure of Slade's. "It helped the people I saved tonight."

"And what about when you're moving slow, tomorrow?" Slade refuses to let him lower his head, hand sliding over to cup his jaw and keep his gaze raised. "Kid, you're better than that. If you really need to be punished there are better ways to get it; ways that don't involve lasting damage or the possibility of a critical mistake taking you out of the game." Slade's voice softens a little, to something faintly teasing. "You don't have to throw yourself headfirst into the way of every fist you can manage until some villain finds you in an alley."

"I didn't…” Dick gives a sigh, and then a small laugh. "I'm pretty sure you're not my therapist," he finally manages.

Slade strokes a thumb over his palm and smiles, and the fingers slip away from his jaw. "Should probably talk to her then, shouldn't you?"

Another laugh bursts out of Dick's throat, and he shakes his head as Slade lets go of his hand as well. "Sometimes I feel like you know way too much about things you really shouldn't."

"I make it a point to," Slade says, head tilting a bit, smile curling a bit further at one edge than the other. "You're worth the effort, kid."

Dick finds himself swallowing again, gaze flicking away from that smile and everything that it implies. Everything this whole night implies. Then, as the whole situation with Kaldur and Wally and _Artemis_ comes back to his mind, lingering there like a sour taste, the measure of how much Slade's attention unnerves him slips a hard notch downwards. _Fuck_ it. Why not? (He doesn't think about the answer to that question because there are _dozens_ of reasons, he knows there are.)

He looks up. "Slade, what kind of interest have you got in me?"

Slade's gaze is piercing, even with only the one eye, and it holds his gaze as Slade lifts a hand, fingers gentle against the side of his face. "Haven't I been clear, Nightwing?"

"You've implied a lot," he says, fighting the urge to shiver as Slade's thumb strokes over the corner of his mouth. "But I need… a little more than that. I need to be sure."

The weight of Slade's attention feels physical, and he has to remember to breathe as that single blue eye looks down towards his mouth, and then up again. "Alright," is the murmured answer, and Slade is leaning in, tilting his chin and turning it and— kissing him. Slade is _kissing_ him.

Even with all of the implications and his previous suspicions, it still shocks him to have it confirmed.

The touch is gone before he can think to respond to it, and he opens his eyes to look up, to see Slade still more than close enough to do it again, with his gaze gone dark and almost slightly hungry. "Is that clear enough for you, little bird?"

Dick swallows, caught by how Slade's voice has dropped low enough to come out slightly husky. "Yeah," he manages to answer, his own voice quiet now, anticipatory, "that's clear." Now he gives into the urge to shiver, the borrowed shirt suddenly feeling much more important, with how most of his legs are bare. He takes a breath, feeling poised and strung tight, like he's on a tightrope. "You're still over twice my age."

Slade's smile has more intent in it than most people manage to get into the actual pick up lines aimed at Dick, and it makes his breath catch just a little even before Slade says, "I have experience, and stamina. You'll enjoy it, and that's all I'm interested in."

"You're only interested in _me_ enjoying it?"

Slade chuckles, thumb lingering at the corner of his mouth now. "I'm a patient man, kid. I'd be lying if I said I didn't have other desires, but I'm not about to push them on you. What you want, you'll get. What you don't, I can live without." The thumb traces his bottom lip, and Dick watches Slade's gaze dip to it, lingering there before there's a murmured, "If that means just getting you off, well, I'll more than enjoy the view."

There are still dozens of reasons Dick shouldn't do this (age, previous encounters, _occupation_ ), but he finds himself taking in a shallow breath and simply agreeing, "Alright."

There's a moment of pause, as if Slade is making sure he isn't going to suddenly recant, and then the mercenary shifts in against him, taking another soft kiss. This time he has the presence of mind to respond, pushing slightly into it and letting Slade move his head to make the angle easier. It's nothing incredible, no magical sparks (like some of his kisses with Zatanna), but the illicit thrill of it is enough to make his breath quicken and his stomach twist in a not-unpleasant way. (If Roy — the one he knew — ever found out that he'd kissed _Deathstroke…_ Well, he would certainly never be able to talk about Cheshire again.)

Slade hums into the kiss, something low and satisfied, and the hand on Dick's cheek slips back to slide through his hair, cupping the back of his skull instead. He finds his left hand rising automatically, touching Slade's side and then curling into his shirt. He doesn't know whether it's an attempt to ground himself, or an attempt to keep Slade close. Either way, the fabric feels good between his fingers, and though he's never been with someone who was quite so in control about it all, he's maybe had just enough of that from past girlfriends that he's sure he likes it.

Having Slade be _male_ is different too; he's never had any kind of real action with a guy beyond small, stolen, experimental kisses in corners they were sure no one would look. Wally had decided that boys mostly weren't for him; Dick decided that they were, but no more so than girls. That is such a far cry from this it's barely even worth comparing.

Slade pulls back, and Dick feels like he's breathing too loudly but Slade's only move is to tug gently at his hair and whisper, "Come here, kid."

He follows the pull, caught in the tide of it all, and Slade guides him in turning and moving forward, one leg coaxed to swing wide until he's straddling the width of Slade's lap. The shirt drags up his thighs, coming dangerously high considering he's got nothing beneath, and heat steals into his cheeks at the feeling of it. Slade's gaze is fixed firmly on his face though; he's pretty sure that he appreciates that consideration, considering how dirty the simple sensation feels. He's not positive he could stand Slade being overtly lecherous with how very vulnerable he currently is. (Though he'd be lying if that vulnerability isn't at least a small part of why he's affected by this.)

Slade's fingers stroke up one thigh, the other hand slipping over his cheek and backwards, to trace the shell of his ear. “You’re damn gorgeous, kid,” Slade murmurs. “Stuff of dreams.” He smiles, even as Dick’s flush brightens. “Or nightmares, depending.”

“Which am I to you?” Dick asks, making an effort not to tilt into the fingertips playing at the edges of his ear. Something that’s made both easier and harder when they leave his ear to stroke back through his hair instead.

“I suppose that’s your choice,” is Slade’s answer, and the fingers on Dick’s thigh slide down, clasping across it to give a brief squeeze just above his knee. “What do you want, kid?”

He hesitates, unsure what to ask for, unsure what he actually _does_ want. This is unfamiliar ground in a lot of ways. “More of this,” he decides to answer, considering it a safe bet. Then, because Slade’s been shockingly kind the whole night, he finds himself admitting, “I don’t have much experience with guys.”

Slade, true to form (and to Dick’s relief), doesn’t tease him about it. He simply offers, “I’m honored.” The hand on his thigh rises to cup his jaw instead, warm against his skin. “Why don’t we start slow then? You can stay right here until you want more, if you decide you do. Sound good?”

He relaxes. “Yeah, it does.”

The hands on his head draw him forward, and he finds himself bracing hands against Slade’s chest to balance as he’s pulled into another kiss. It aches, a little, to press weight into his injured wrist, but he ignores it in favor of enjoying how Slade’s lips feel against his. This is mostly familiar ground at least; sitting on a couch and making out are within his skill set, even if usually he’s the one leaning against the back of the couch while someone else sits in his lap. The reversal is… interesting. Good. Maybe he should look into finding a boyfriend next time, instead of a girlfriend. Or just a really _confident_ woman who might be interested in swapping ‘normal’ roles with him.

Things to think about.

One of Slade’s hands stays in his hair while they continue to kiss, but eventually the other one lowers, looping around his waist and pressing to the small of his back. It’s a gentle prompt to move closer, or at least that’s what Dick takes it as, and he decides to follow it. He lets one of his own hands slip up to brace over Slade’s shoulder, and shifts closer until his knees are pressed to the back of the couch and there are only a few inches left between him and Slade. Given the way that Slade’s hand flexes in his hair, and the slight skip in breathing rhythm, it’s an appreciated movement.

Slade’s hand curls into the fabric of the borrowed shirt. Dick’s protesting noise is automatic when Slade breaks away from the kiss, but it quickly becomes a small groan when that mouth slides down his jaw instead, pressing hot kisses across his throat that he finds himself tilting into. It doesn’t even occur to Dick to think about the possibility of hickeys until Slade’s mouth is closed over a spot on his shoulder, and then the thought vanishes just as quickly as the heat turns to pressure and a low, good sort of an ache. That bit’s familiar at least.

“Nothing I have to hide,” he does gather the mind to say, and Slade hums acknowledgement into his skin.

Dick’s not entirely sure how much time they spend there, with Slade alternately kissing him and pressing teasing lips and teeth against the more sensitive skin of his neck and shoulders. The heat builds beneath his skin, and there’s no hiding how hard he gets, not with only the shirt covering him. He’s not sure what to think of the fact that Slade doesn’t draw any attention to it, and seems content to stay just like this and take what he’s giving, rather than ask or push for more. But, that’s what he was promised, wasn’t it?

That’s what lets him make up his mind, in the end.

He curls the hand he has on Slade’s chest to grip the shirt, tilting his head up to break the kiss and take a small breath. A press to Slade’s chest keeps him back against the couch, and when Dick opens his eyes and looks up that single blue eye is slightly lidded, hungry, but still just _waiting_.

He takes a deep breath, and offers, “I think I’m ready for that ‘more’.”

Slade’s mouth curls into a small smile, and the hand at the small of his back releases its grip on the borrowed shirt, slipping back to squeeze his waist instead. “Tell me what you want, kid,”

Dick thinks, for a minute, about the things he’s done with women, considering how that reverses into interactions with _Slade_ , and then swallows.”I don’t know,” he admits, and then adds, “Not all the way; I don’t think I can just… leap in like that.”

“Alright,” Slade agrees. “Simple then, like this?” Dick nods, after a moment of thought, and Slade briefly squeezes his waist again. “I’m not going to push for what you’re uncomfortable with, kid. It’s fine with me if you want to start off one-way and then see how comfortable you are reciprocating.”

It’s like a weight slides off his shoulders, and he can’t help the small sigh as he lowers his head. It does make him feel a little guilty, thinking of being selfish enough to get off without offering it in return, but Slade just chuckles, pulling him in for a soft kiss as the fingers in his hair slide to his jaw instead.

“It’s alright, kid,” Slade murmurs, after the kiss ends. “I have some experience coaxing same-sex virgins; you’re in good hands.” He nearly protests that he’s not an actual virgin (just with _guys_ , which admittedly might be what Slade is talking about), but then Slade’s hands slide down to his thighs, below the hem of the shirt, and he asks, “Let me see you?”

It only takes a moment for him to understand the request, and though it makes him just slightly nervous he nods, exhaling a slow breath to be steady. (He’s never been in a situation like this where he wasn’t the confident one, but then he’s also never done anything like this with someone over twice his age, so…)

Slade’s hands stay still on his thighs as Dick slowly unbuttons the shirt, letting it fall open piece by piece. Then, to distract himself from the moment of being revealed, he rolls his shoulders back and pulls the shirt off his arms, letting it fall to the ground behind him. His gaze lowers back to Slade then, as he takes a deep breath and tries not to think about how many bruises he must have, let alone the scars beneath them. That’s a moment that never gets any easier, the first time around a new person. He’s confident in his own looks, but doing what he does (without powers, up close and personal) lends itself to a lot more scars than the average vigilante. Most people are surprised.

He watches, poised, as Slade’s gaze travels down his chest, _lower_ , and then rises back to meet his. “Gorgeous,” Slade says, through a small smile. “Knew you would be, kid.”

His exhale comes out just a little rushed, and Slade’s hands slip up his thighs, taking his waist in a solid grip and pulling him a little closer in. The feeling of those hands on his waist — _big_ hands — is enough to make his breath catch even before Slade pulls him into a kiss, teeth grazing over his lip and startling him into movement. He braces his hands on Slade’s shoulders, gives a small moan into the press of Slade’s mouth, and the hands on his waist tighten a fraction before the one on the left lets go.

By the time the kiss parts for a moment, and he can look down, Slade’s retrieved a small packet from somewhere that’s almost startlingly familiar. Travel-sized lube packets, perfect for squeaky hinges and stuck gears and _apparently_ illicit sexual encounters too.

“Were you just carrying that around with you?” he asks, blinking down at it.

Slade chuckles, other hand leaving his waist as well to tear the small package open. "Isn't it practically your family's motto to always be prepared, Nightwing?"

For the moment that it takes Slade to get some of that lube on one hand, Dick doesn't have an answer. Then, when he does find words, it's only to say, "Alright, fair. So you thought this might happen?"

"I pulled some out when I retrieved that shirt for you," Slade offers, setting the packet aside and then reaching up, with the clean hand, to grip the back of his neck. "Now come here, kid."

He follows the gentle pull of the hand on his neck and leans in, allowing Slade to pull him into a kiss. This one is deeper, and it surprises him just a bit when Slade's tongue slides in between his lips, enough that he opens his mouth in answer, even before he decides that he likes it and presses further into it. Slade's squeezes the back of his neck; it doesn't register as a heads up until Slade's other fingertips touch his hip, and then slide inwards to wrap around his cock. He gasps a mostly blocked off breath, his fingers clenching down on Slade's shoulders as his hips give a small buck forward, into the touch. His wrist aches a bit, but he ignores it.

Slade's hand is warm and sure around him, gripping in practiced strokes that are eased by the slickness of the lube. It's _good_. Not quite as practiced as his own hand, but wholly different, which makes it excellent in a completely different way. It's _so_ good, and at least half of that must be that Slade is pressed close to him, the hand on the back of his neck a hard, commanding pressure that keeps him involved in that kiss, splitting his attention between all the points of contact.

He ends up giving small moans into Slade's mouth, rocking into the hand wrapped around him as he breathes, hard, in the fractions of moments between kisses that he can. It's been awhile since he was with anyone like this, with everything going on right now, and he starts to lose himself in it. Dick's not quite sure when it is that Slade uses the grip on his neck to tip his head back, breaking the kiss and letting him breathe a little more evenly, though no less hard. His eyes stay closed, mouth parted to pant, only somewhat aware of the sounds he's making, and exactly how hard his fingers are digging into Slade's shoulders.

"That's it," Slade says, voice a low, deep rumble. "That's good, kid. Go ahead and feel it; don't hold back.” Slade’s mouth ghosts across the front of his throat, pressing small kisses to his skin on the way past. “Let it all go."

" _Slade_ ," he manages, the word coming out a as a groan. “Please, I need— _Please._ ”

“I got you, kid.” Slade’s grip tightens a bit, moves a bit faster and draws a shaky moan from Dick. “You can do it; I know you can. Just like this, come on.”

Slade pauses to suck at the base of his neck, and Dick gives an even louder moan, his hand reflexively releasing Slade’s shoulder and grabbing for the back of his head. His fingers end up tunneled through the white hair of the slim ponytail bound at the back of Slade’s neck, clinging tight to it to both ground himself and keep Slade close to him. He’s maybe pulling at it a bit, but Slade’s only response is to graze teeth over his skin so it can’t be a bad feeling, if it’s one he’s even noticed.

The heat coiled in his gut snaps, and he bucks into Slade’s grip and cries out, his eyes squeezing shut and his hands tightening their grips until the injured one protests with a sharp lance of pain up his wrist and forces him to let go. Slade holds him through it, steady against his movement and letting him ride it out on his own time, until he’s leaning forward into that comfortably solid chest, breathing hard against Slade’s neck as the rest of him starts to relax.

Slade’s hand is stroking his back now; long, slow passes of fingertips down the length of his spine that Dick almost wants to lean into except that he’s still invested in how nice it feels to just be resting against Slade instead. There’s no push for him to straighten up, so he waits until his breathing has calmed down, and some of the buzz has faded from his veins, to push up and straighten his back, settling back until he can look Slade in the eye again.

That means that Slade’s hand comes forward, squeezing his shoulder for a moment before grazing knuckles over his cheek, as Slade’s mouth curls in a small, softer smirk. “Feel good, kid?”

Dick dips his head in a slow nod, tilting his head towards the hand at his cheek as he hums agreement. “Yeah,” he says, voice gone soft with the easy pleasure still lingering in his muscles. “Thank you.”

“That’s my line,” Slade teases. “Beautiful to watch, kid; knew it would be.”

He flushes just a bit at the compliment, gaze lowering, and that makes him notice the unmistakable, clear swell of Slade’s own erection against the fabric of his slacks. He swallows, nerves fluttering down behind his ribs as he starts, “You—”

“That’s your call, kid,” Slade interrupts, voice firm but mouth curling into a smile at the end of it. “Be lying if I said I didn’t have preferences, but whatever you’re comfortable with is fine. I am in possession of a fully functioning right hand, after all.”

“You really don’t mind?” Dick asks, after a moment of hesitation. The idea of being so one-sided is…

Slade leans up, guiding him into a soft kiss before there’s the reassurance of, “I really don’t, kid. I’m patient, and it’d be a shame to scare you off so soon.”

“I’m not scared,” he protests, and Slade chuckles.

“You will be if I push you past your limits. It’s fine, kid; getting my hands on you was treat enough.” Slade’s smile curves a little wider, and the hand on Dick’s cheek slips down to rest against the center of his chest with gentle pressure. “But if you don’t mind, I would like to go handle it myself. I’m not much for denial, generally.”

The implication nearly makes him flush again, but Dick only nods and climbs off of Slade’s lap, looking back behind him for the shirt that he left on the floor. He’s barely picked it up before Slade — now also standing — slides a hand around his waist and tugs him around into another kiss, this one a bit deeper than the last. Dick meets it, his head tipping back to make the angle necessary since Slade is _tall_ , the hand not holding onto his borrowed shirt grabbing onto Slade’s arm in turn.

Slade presses a soft kiss to the corner of his mouth before pulling away, fingers sliding slow along Dick’s waist. “You’re welcome to stay or head off, kid; whatever you want.”

He offers another nod in answer, and then a, “Thanks, for patching me up.”

The look in Slade's eye is maybe a bit more piercing than he’s comfortable with, but then Slade traces fingers down the left side of his face, over the forming bruises, and he quietly says, “The next time you need a distraction, kid, or to punish yourself, consider coming to me instead, alright? I can take your mind off things _without_ all the damage, and I'll make time for you, kid, whether it’s today or a month from now.”

“I don’t know—” he starts, but Slade cuts him off.

“Just think about it. It’s an alternative to getting yourself pummeled into the ground.” Slade smirks, then says, lower, “And if that _is_ what you want, I can do it without actual injury; just an option to consider, kid. Either way, thanks for the night.”

He doesn’t have an answer, but Slade doesn’t seem to need one.

The click of the bathroom door closing is finally enough to shove Dick’s brain out of it’s repeating loop and get him to start to move. He considers the shirt in his hand for a moment, but then heads towards the corner of the room where he’d left his Nightwing suit. He’s got too much left to do to stick around here.

But… maybe he'll take Slade up on his offer.

* * *

_July 9th, 23:14 CDT_

“Are you sure you want to do this?” M’gann asks him again, voice hushed and gentle instead of using the mental link, which he knows is her version of respecting his privacy.

She doesn’t know all the details of exactly what’s happened between him and Slade, and Dick‘s going to keep it that way, but there’s only so much shielding he can do and the mention of Slade keeps blindsiding him at the worst times. She didn’t realize something was wrong until they took down Slade together, and he was maybe a little more vicious than he needed to be about it, but after that it was only a matter of time.

Dick’s just glad, personally, that no one else has picked up on it. They’ve been busy, after all. Taking down the Light, finalizing the Reach leaving the planet, and generally getting themselves back in order again after… Well, not everyone made it out. (That hasn’t helped any with this tight ball of guilt and anger in his gut; he can’t fix Wally but maybe he can at least get closure for _this_.)

“I’m sure,” he answers, as he moves towards the cell’s door.

Solitary. Slade doesn’t quite fit in with the powered population of Belle Reve, but they’re still struggling to figure out where they can safely put him. In the meantime, he’s a little too dangerous to be allowed out among the rest of the prison population, to guards and prisoners both. The perils of a highly trained person with very little in the way of actual enhancements; Slade doesn’t have his enhanced reflexes or strength anymore, but he’s still better trained than any other person in the building, guards included.

“Disable the link,” Dick orders, and a moment later he feels that odd, but now familiar, linking of minds in the back if his head slide away. “Don’t let anyone in. I’ll knock when I’m ready to go.”

She nods, straightening up and sliding into the form of one of the guards, hands clasping at her back. He slides the access card they palmed through the lock on Slade’s door, hands it off to M’gann as it beeps open, and then slips inside through the gap. He makes sure to shut it securely behind him, as his eyes adjust to the relative darkness. It’s ‘night’ after all.

That doesn’t stop Slade from being awake, sitting on the bed with his back against the wall and watching him just as steadily as he always is. He can feel the uncomfortable, _angry_ twist of his stomach as Slade’s mouth curls into a smirk.

“I figured I’d see you before too long,” Slade says, body language not betraying even a hint of unease. “Want another round, kid? You’ll have to have brought supplies, but I can improvise the rest. The collar’s only a minor hindrance; nothing I can't work around with a little effort, but you know that, don't you? That's why I'm hidden away in here."

"They're figuring out where to put you," he says, and is maybe just a little proud that his voice comes out fairly even and mostly devoid of the rage that's starting to coil tight in his gut. "You're not a metahuman, so technically you don't belong here, but they're not sure where else to put you. Once administration finished sorting itself out, we'll see."

"I figured it was something like that," is Slade's easy answer, gaze unwavering but clearly amused. "I've been in worse places; none have held me. This won't either."

Dick finds himself stepping forward, shoulders rising just a bit as he counters, "It'll hold you. I'll make sure of it."

Slade laughs, low and rich, head tipping back for a moment. "Why's that, kid? You want me locked up somewhere nice and convenient so you can visit any time you like? There are easier ways to get my attention, but if the roleplay appeals to you—”

"Stop it!" he snaps, hands curling to fists for a moment before he can force them loose again. "Just _stop_. Whatever this is, it's done."

"So you came, alone, to my room to tell me that?" Slade's expression hasn't even faltered, and there's nothing in his posture to suggest he's anything but relaxed. "Kid, do you really believe that? Honestly?"

" _Yes_ ," Dick presses, and takes another step forward, then another, until he's standing at the edge of the bed. "You lied to me, Slade. You _used_ me."

Then Slade moves. Slowly, turning to shift his legs off the bed and sit at the side, looking up at him. "I didn't use you any more than you were using me, Nightwing."

He lashes out, grabbing hold of Slade's prison uniform and dragging him forward an inch, mouth curling to bare his teeth. "You were working with the Light! You _knew_ you were going to before we ever got into that hotel room; you _knew_ you were going to be my enemy and you started all of it anyway. We are _not_ equal here, Slade; you lied every step of the way!"

Slade raises an eyebrow, and just as slowly, just as deliberately, disengages Dick's grip one wrist at a time before standing. "I never lied to you, kid," is the firm, quiet answer. "I never pretended to be anything that I wasn't, and I didn't _take_ anything from you that you didn't ask me to. If you can name a moment where that isn't true, then do it, but I've never been interested in having the unwilling."

"You manipulated me—” he starts, and Slade scoffs, single eye flicking in a half-roll.

"You _let_ me, kid. You knew exactly what I was before I ever touched you, and you chose to ignore it." Dick shifts his weight back, away from the imposing figure that Slade now makes, standing tall and looking down at him. "Of course I manipulated you," Slade adds on. "You were an attractive, flexible young man with the weight of the world on his shoulders. Nearly literally. You were an easy target, and I've told you before, kid; I'm patient when it comes to getting what I want. I was _kind_ , and it got me what I wanted, didn’t it? You, in any way I wanted."

He opens his mouth, ready to say something (though he's not sure what), but Slade steps forward, _far_ too close, and beats him to the punch.

"Every touch, every kiss, every _breath_ from that gorgeous mouth of yours, you _gave_ , kid. Willingly. Eagerly. You used me as a distraction from your responsibilities and your guilt." Slade's mouth slides into a smile that's far too wicked for it to be friendly. "And I used you because it was entertaining and pleasurable. I didn't get information out of you for the Light, I didn't spy on you, and I never used you to further their goals in any way. But if you were expecting me to forgo my evil ways because we had some sex, little bird, that's your own delusion."

Slade's not _wrong_ , is the wall he runs into. Dick _can't_ think of a time that Slade lied to him any more than a simple denial of information, and he never pushed farther than that because he knew, more clearly than he wanted to think about, that if he knew what Slade was doing he'd have to try and stop it. He _knew_ , he just… needed not to care. He needed not to hear it. Having an outlet was the point, and if Slade had been just another person to stop…

"I guess it was," he answers, finally, and steps back. "I should have known better than to expect anything from a mercenary like you." Slade's gaze is steady, smile not even flickering, and Dick takes another step back and heads for the door. "Whatever you want to call this, it's done, Slade. It's not happening again."

"No, I suppose you'll go back to running yourself ragged on the streets to punish yourself for all that guilt, won't you? Much healthier than casual sex, surely."

Dick raps his knuckles against the door before he looks back and admits, "No. But it's healthier than doing it with _you_. Find some other way to get your rocks off, because it sure as hell won't be with me anymore."

The door opens, revealing the face of the guard M'gann is currently impersonating, before Slade chuckles and says, "The door's still open, kid, if you ever change your mind."

He leaves before Slade can say anything more damning, or he can let the anger still hot in his gut make him respond in any way that he shouldn't. The door clicks shut again, and M'gann's features slide back to their own color and shape as he takes a breath, steadying himself as best he can.

"You're angry," she says, and when he looks over she's quick to add, "It's broadcasting, sorry."

He forces himself to straighten up, and to tamp all of that down to deal with later. "It's not important," he reassures her, with a quick, small smile. It doesn't fool her — telepaths are hard to fool, especially ones that know you well — but he doesn't expect it to. "I'm taking time off for a reason, M'gann, but I'll be fine. I can handle it. Thank you for helping me get in here."

"Of course." She walks by his side, as they head out of the solitary confinement wing and back out to where they'll need to actually dodge guards and cameras. (Not that there's none in here, but Dick knows the routes and he's hacked the cameras, so the risk is minimal.) Before they actually step out, M'gann looks over at him and says, "I know that you think you need to keep all your burdens to yourself, and I don't think you're exactly wrong, especially not with what you pulled off with Artemis, and Kaldur, but… If you need to talk, or need any kind of help, would you promise me you'll at least think about asking someone? Not me, necessarily, just someone?"

The question eats at him a little; sounds too familiar and too much like what got him into this trouble in the first place, but he makes himself breathe away the little thread of discomfort that makes itself known. M’gann would never take advantage of him like that, and now he knows better than to let anyone else do it either.

"Yeah, M'gann. I will; promise."


End file.
